On Expendability - or, Tonight, Someone Dies
by ferasha
Summary: Stuck in the Fade are Farid Adaar, a young Qunari who's struggling to adapt to his role as the Inquisitor, Julian Hawke, the former Champion of Kirkwall, and Marcel Caron, an Orlesian, once Warden Commander of Ferelden and Arl of Amaranthine. The road is long and the Fade is full of tricks, and it's only a matter of time before dark secrets and old wounds come to the surface.
1. Chapter 1

_I loved the Fade part of "Dragon Age: Inquisition". I loved how it was designed and delivered, and how it forced you to make that horrible decision in the end._

 _Now, as you know, one companion in the Fade is always Hawke, but the other one varies. Depending on your choices in "Origins", it can be Alistair, Loghain, or Stroud - the mustachey dude with a strong 'Orlesian' accent that few people actually care for and who regularly gets left in the Fade._

 _I wanted to do something a bit more interesting with the premise._

 _See, one of my very favorite characters in all Dragon Age games is the Orlesian Warden from "Awakening". Y'know, that 'create new character' option that almost no one picks - because why would you, when you can import your old Wardens even if they're dead - even though it makes the entire "Awakening" storyline much more meaningful. That option that got cut out of "Dragon Age: Keep" tapestries. That option a lot of people don't even know of - when I told my fellow Dragon Age fans how I much I enjoyed playing with an Orlesian Warden, I was met with confusion and head-scratching. "You can play an Orlesian?" they wondered. "That's a thing?"_

 _Yup, and it's a thing I have a thing for._

 _So instead of going back to Alistair or Loghain, or sticking with Stroud who is some sort of a canon stand-in for the Orlesian Warden Commander option anyway, I decided to throw my Marcel Caron into the Fade with Hawke and the Inquisitor, and see what happens._

 _Especially given that in the end someone has to die._

 _Beta'd by M. Rosenkov, who did an amazing job here - I'm not a native speaker, and her interventions really made the story flow more naturally in English._

 _Bonus points if you read Marcel's lines with a strong French accent._

 **On Expendability**

or,

Tonight, Someone Dies

 **Chapter One: Flowers in the Fade**

 _So this is how the man who will save the world looks like_ , Marcel thought, observing the awkward yellow-eyed lad as he struggled to get rid of the sticky webs that clung to his coat. Those _non_ -spiders had been attacking them for an hour now—or was it hours _?_ Days? It was so difficult to figure out the passage of time here in the Fade.

The lad's mage coat was self-made – and made well, Marcel had to admit. It was quite resilient in battle, yet looked like a pile of metal junk randomly glued onto a piece of old leather, which was tragically dyed vibrant orange. The way it fit the lad's frame was everything but flattering. Given this obvious lack of care for his appearance, the young Inquisitor either had to be a very modest fellow, or a most pragmatic one.

 _Or why not both_ , Marcel thought. After all, the Herald of Andraste and the man who would save the world was—of all things—a blasted Qunari.

His posture was odd for a Qunari, though. In his lifetime, Marcel had met quite a few of the horned people, some Tal-Vashoth, and some followers of the Qun. What all of them had in common was this proud posture, bordering on arrogance—a certainty of their place in the world.

The Inquisitor, however, looked nothing like that. He smiled frequently and too shyly, avoided eye contact, and walked with his back hunched as if he wanted to make himself look smaller. _Must be a consequence of growing up so large in our world,_ Marcel thought as he tried to imagine the lad hitting chandeliers with his horns, barely passing through doorframes with those wide shoulders, or squatting as he struggled to sit in miniscule human chairs. It was not a pretty picture. The lad might've been competent to close rifts or beat the crap out of demons, but with those dreadful robes and clumsy smiles, they would eat him alive at the Orlesian Court, Herald of Andraste or not.

The _other_ one, on the other hand—the former Champion, the one who called Marcel "his Warden contact" and acted as if he knew all the ordeals of the Order, even though they'd only corresponded a few times and had never met in person before the skies were ripped open and everyone went mad—looked the part. Tall, blond, and built like a statue, his face was adorned with an exotic yet tasteful tattoo. He dressed in dark velvet and blue furs that perfectly matched the color of his eyes, and looked as if he were predestined for grand things, as if saving the world was just another pastime he indulged in every Saturday afternoon between lunch and a game of Wicked Grace with friends. His demeanor was friendly, his smirk dashing, and the expression on his face was both weary and hopeful, perfect for a leader in dire times. Too bad his chance to lead anything was long gone.

"Um, I found… _this_ ," the Inquisitor said, after spending what seemed an eternity rummaging through dirt and cobbles.

The way the lad acted in the Fade was strange—from time to time, he'd get all twitchy and focus on the ground as if he followed some signs only he could spot, and everyone had to wait until he came up with some seemingly random object. Like this, for example. A bunch of flowers.

Holding the tiny bouquet in his shovel hands, the Inquisitor was quite a sight to behold.

"Flowers? You deem it useful?" the Nevarran woman asked. She always seemed to both question and support the Inquisitor's authority at the same time. It was so contradictory that Marcel found it entertaining.

"I think it's related to those dreamers who are trapped here," the Inquisitor said. "Like that candle from a while ago. A dreamer was afraid of the dark, so I brought him the candle, and he seemed to drift away in peace. Now there's another one, right behind that corner over there, and he's scared that the Blight scorched the ground and destroyed all life. So I thought I could comfort him by bringing him…"

"Flowers," the Nevarran woman finished his line and raised an eyebrow.

"It's not that simple, Cassandra." The Inquisitor blushed. "There's more to it. I don't know how to explain it. It's as if whenever I put a dreamer at ease I grow stronger somehow. My body feels lighter, my mind clearer. It's difficult to put it into words, but…"

"That happens frequently in the Fade," the former Champion interrupted. "I think that's how the Fade works. There are these puzzles, and if you solve them right, you're rewarded by permanently growing stronger. I've done it before."

The tone of his voice suggested he would be all too happy to do it again.

"If that's what it is, then we must all assist the Inquisitor to grow stronger," the Nevarran woman firmly declared. "Even if it means looking for flowers."

An awkward smile stretched across the inquisitor's face, revealing a set of crooked teeth. The former champion narrowed his eyes—a movement too slight for the unobservant to notice. _Oh my,_ Marcel thought. _This will be even more interesting than anyone could predict._

The Inquisitor left off to give his flowers to the dreamer—or whatever it was—accompanied by the Nevarran woman, and that strange Grey Warden who looked nothing like a Grey Warden, yet was always the first to praise the Order's bravery and heroism. The dwarf remained with the former Champion—the two of them were best friends of some sort, if Marcel followed the plot correctly.

An uneasy silence settled between the three.

"I take it you knew Blondie?" the dwarf suddenly asked.

It took a moment for Marcel to realize the question was directed at him.

"I beg your pardon, I knew _whom?_ "

"Varric, don't," the former Champion sighed.

"Oh, I apologize," the dwarf continued. "I forget that not all have read _The_ _Tale of the Champion._ I'm talking about Anders. _That_ Anders. He used to be a Grey Warden under your command, if I'm not mistaken?"

" _Ah_ , _oui, mais oui_ ," Marcel exclaimed. "Anders. He served under me in Amaranthine when I was the acting Warden Commander of Ferelden. He didn't stay long with the Order, but he was there in those first months when the situation was the worst."

The former Champion's perfect face darkened, but the dwarf simply nodded.

"What was he like?"

"Varric," the former Champion growled. " _Don't._ "

Marcel took a moment to think. It was a long time ago, and for reasons he preferred not to dwell upon, he'd pushed the entire Ferelden episode as far back into his memory as he could.

"He was charming, superficial, and deliberately silly more often than not. Sometimes fun, sometimes—what's the expression— _obnoxious_ ," Marcel carefully pronounced the word. His Fereldan had grown rusty after years of not using the language—his accent was thick and he spoke with effort. "Overall, a very likeable young man. Until the day he did something stupid—not that doing stupidities was out of character for him. But he left quickly afterwards, and I guess you know what happened next better than I do."

The former Champion stared at Marcel, his expression eerily flat.

"Varric," he asked without looking at the dwarf. "Why did I have to hear this?"

"Because I think there's moral to that story," the dwarf replied, "that maybe you should take note of, Champion."

"Do _not_ call me that."

The dwarf was just about to reply when the Inquisitor and his entourage returned from their flowery detour, in the middle of quite a heated argument: the Nevarran woman was yelling, and the Inquisitor angrily waved around with his tree-trunk arms.

"No, Cassandra, I will _not._ I'm getting tired of this charade. You saw for yourself that everything has a perfectly _rational_ explanation," the Inquisitor ranted. It was the first time he delivered a line without the excessive use of 'errs' and 'ums'—Marcel was impressed. "I'm no chosen one, it happened by accident. It could've been anyone. There's no Andraste, there never was, and the Inquisition should really stop using _filthy lies_ to advance its cause."

"You don't get it, Inquisitor," the Nevarran woman despaired. "If you'd just stop for a moment and _think._ People need hope in these dark times. Why do you fail to see that? They _need_ to believe. They _need_ to rally around a common cause, and, for that purpose, passing you for the Herald of Andraste really helps the Inquisition."

"Oh, so 'let's-join-forces-to-mend-the-fucking-hole-in-the-sky' is not good enough of a cause?" the Inquisitor sneered.

 _Way to go, lad,_ Marcel thought. _Didn't know you had it in you._

The Nevarran woman looked as if she didn't know whether to punch the horned blockhead between the eyes, or burst into tears. Marcel almost felt sorry for her.

"Lord Inquisitor, if I may," the former Champion intervened. "What Lady Seeker suggests here is certainly to the Inquisition's advantage. For endeavors such as this one, image and propaganda matter as much as brute force and determination. Perception of one's cause can be as important as the cause itself. When I was leading the mage uprising in Kirkwall, I really paid heed to appearances, not only taking care to present our goals in a palatable manner that would make people accept them as just, but also designing myself in such a fashion that people perceived me as the hero they expected me to be."

"Yeah, and look how far that brought you," the Inquisitor grumbled. He did not mean it as an insult, that much was obvious. The lad was simply one of those people who didn't weigh their words in the heat of an argument—but the former Champion looked as if he had just been slapped in the face.

"I'm, um, quite a tolerant man," the Inquisitor continued, not even bothering to look at the man in front of him, "and I can put up with a lot of nonsense. But this is where I draw the line. _No. More. Lies._ "

"Fine," the Nevarran woman sighed, raising her hands in defeat. "Fine. No more lies. But I pray we continue now, Inquisitor, else we end up stuck in the Fade, and then all our efforts be in vain. Unless there are more flowers to pick?"

"We can go on, yes," the Inquisitor agreed, pouting. Marcel had never seen a Qunari pout before. "This place is spooky and, y'know, kinda sticky, like everything's covered with slime. I've never been much of a Fade fan anyway. I wish Solas were here."

He took the lead, as usual, with the Nevarran woman guarding his back as a proper watchdog, and the dwarf and former Champion—who still looked almost comically shocked—trailing a few steps behind. Marcel was always happy to keep the rear.

"Brother." That strange Grey Warden approached him—there was something off-key about the man, Marcel could swear it, but he couldn't figure out what, as of yet. "You do not partake in their arguments? Maybe the Inquisitor would listen to you. He read reports about you, you know, said he admired you a great deal for how you handled the crisis in Amaranthine."

"I've never been much of a public speaker, _mon frère_." Marcel smiled and bowed ever so slightly, like a proper Orlesian. "And I prefer to stay away from affairs that do not concern our Order most directly. Meddling into daily politics has never brought us any good—which is, if you ask me, exactly the lesson that our young Inquisitor should take from my ordeal in Amaranthine."

"As you say, brother," the bearded man nodded, visibly not happy with Marcel's answer.

They were just about to turn the corner, Marcel bracing himself for another wave of non-spiders, when it happened.

A voice—male, deep, and unmistakably villainous in that penny theater sort of way that demons always went for—boomed at them from above.

Or maybe it didn't. It sounded as if he could hear the words both in the air, up in the green non-sky, and deep inside of his head.

 **I greet you, mortals,** the voice said. **Welcome to my lair. I am the veiled hand of Corypheus. I am Nightmare, your every fear come to life.**

The voice paused for a moment for its words to sink in. Marcel felt the off-key Warden tense next to him, and saw the Nevarran woman step in front of the Inquisitor with her shield raised, as if that could stop the words from flowing.

 **I know what keeps you awake at night,** the voice rumbled on. **I know who you are alone in the dark. I know whom you see when you look in the mirror. You may have secrets before yourselves, but there is nothing you can hide from me. I feed off your fears, mortals. And I'll rejoice in exposing them to you.**

Moments passed in confused silence, broken eventually by the dwarf.

"Well, shit."

 _Mesdames et messieurs,_ Marcel thought bitterly and smirked, _the plot thickens._


	2. Chapter 2: Don't Call Us, We'll Call You

**Chapter Two: Don't Call Us, We'll Call You**

After that spectacular announcement, their gracious host— _What sort of an uncreative twat you had to be to call yourself Nightmare,_ Marcel thought—did not utter a word. It was probably part of its show—a long silence, to wear them down with waiting, to make them dread on what fears the demon would unearth for everyone to see. Fairly predictable. Still, Marcel did not like this silence. It made him focus on himself.

Marcel hoped it wouldn't happen here in the Fade, but it seemed some things were impossible to escape.

Most people did not understand that primarily, it was a physical feeling. It would start as a tingling under the skin—an itch—merely annoying at first until it would grow so strong that you wanted to rip your clothes off and scratch yourself raw. Soon, all you would think of would be corruption crawling through your bloodstream, seeping into your bones. You would feel nauseous—holding down food would become an issue—yet a raging hunger would creep deep into your gut.

Then the voices would come.

Just a buzz to begin with—a white noise, easy to ignore. It would get louder and louder, fusing with howls and shrieks of darkspawn, horrible to endure, yet still impersonal. The real trial would start when the noise morphed into words.

At times, Marcel felt as if he could recognize certain voices in that cacophony—old comrades, Grey Wardens long dead and gone; his father, his younger brother perished at sea, his first love who married another and died at childbirth on the eve of her nineteenth birthday. They whispered to him and told him tales of youth. Sometimes, he heard other voices too, quiet and ancient, who spoke in tongues and promised him secrets. On such days, it took a great deal of willpower to stay focused on the real world.

And then, the voices would melt into screams.

 _Those_ screams.

Marcel suddenly felt so sick he could vomit.

Across the hall, sitting on the floor illuminated by the rippled reflections of the green non-sky, the strange Grey Warden was staring at him.

"Do you feel it too, _mon frère_?" Marcel asked, his voice hoarse.

The man blinked.

"Do I feel what?"

Marcel studied the man for a few instants before answering.

"Nothing," he whispered. " _Rien du tout._ Forget I asked."

 _Maybe it isn't that Tevinter bastard's trap,_ he thought. _Maybe my actual time has come._

Instead of chasing after that thing that may had been late Justinia's ghost or yet another Fade spirit with a will to help, a talent for acting and a lot of spare time, they had gone in the opposite direction—up the stairs and into a cave, ending up in a room where two Pride demons had guarded a large, altar-like mirror. Dispatching of the demons had been fairly easy—but then, the Inquisitor had another one of his moments.

While the rest of the party was sitting on the floor waiting, the lad fumbled with an assortment of candles that were placed on the mirror. He'd lift them, examine them closely, sniff them, light them in a certain order, then frown and sigh and blow out the candles, ready to do the entire ritual again. He had repeated it more than a dozen times by now. The Nevarran woman stood next to him, watching his movements closely, nervously scratching that old scar on her cheek. Her eyes were bloodshot, Marcel noticed, her face pale. With her naturally dark complexion, it was the color of ash.

Slowly, Marcel rose and approached her.

" _Madame la Chercheuse,_ do you feel alright?" he asked quietly.

"Yes…" she faltered. Then as if she wished to reassure herself, she repeated, "Yes."

"Maybe you should use this opportunity to rest for a moment. It will do you good."

From the look she gave him, it was obvious she was desperate to sit down, yet too stubborn to leave her most vital duty.

"I will guard the Inquisitor in your stead, _madame_ ," he said softly, hoping that women still found his smile charming. "I promise to be as vigilant as you. Now, please have some rest. We need you strong and refreshed."

She hesitated for a moment, then slowly nodded.

"If the Inquisitor loses as much as a hair off his head, I'll skin you alive," she said, turning to leave. And then, to Marcel's surprise, in a hushed voice she added, "Sometimes, I just don't know what to _do_ with him."

She joined the rest of their group, loudly dropping her shield on the floor before she crouched down and buried her head in her palms. She looked in dire need of a good night's sleep—or a bottle of hard liquor. Marcel thought he'd gladly join her.

"Thanks for that," the Inquisitor said.

Marcel approached the mirror and leaned against one of its ornate pillars. He felt odd next to the Inquisitor—he wasn't used to people so tall that he had to raise his head to look them in the eyes.

"You agree our Lady Seeker needs a break?"

"It's not that. Thanks for getting her off my back." The lad continued playing with his candles, lighting them and blowing them out. "Nowadays I feel like I'm not even allowed to take a piss on my own."

Marcel chuckled, looking at the flames on the lad's fingertips. He'd always been fascinated with mages—how they could conjure fire out of thin air and call down lightning from blue skies. It soothed him to observe the lad, he realized, as if staring into the candle light calmed the voices slithering through his blood.

"I, um…" the Inquisitor suddenly whispered. "I don't think Cassandra likes me that much."

Marcel was taken aback by this unexpected sincerity.

"She would die for you in a heartbeat, _mon cher Inquisiteur._ "

"Oh I know that." The lad gave him a clumsy, toothy smile. "But it doesn't mean she has to _like_ me. I think I'm a huge disappointment for her. She wanted someone like Hawke, y'know? Someone who has a way with words, and who'd happily play up that Herald of Andraste angle. Someone _pretty._ But instead she got stuck with me _._ An oxman _._ "

There was a strange sadness in his yellow eyes—they were a deep, golden yellow, the kind of color that no human could naturally have, which only emphasized the Inquisitor's foreignness.

Once upon a time—a lifetime ago—Marcel had met someone with the same yellow eyes.

"Varric told me that, at first, Cassandra wanted Hawke to lead the Inquisition," the lad continued, rearranging his candles again. "But shit happened and that plan fell through. I don't think it's too late, though. She can have him, as far as I'm concerned. He can lead the Inquisition and recite the Chant and dress in a drag and claim he's Andraste herself for all I care. I'll be more than happy to stay in the background and close those bloody rifts."

The childlike way the horned giant hungered for approval was almost endearing.

"I'm afraid such a turn of events is not possible"—Marcel wanted to say 'your Grace', but realizing the young Inquisitor wouldn't like to be called that, he changed the sentence midway—" _mon cher_. And besides, you're being too hard on yourself. You're doing fine with the Inquisition."

"Um, you think so?" The Inquisitor blushed. Surprisingly, Marcel found it sweet.

"Indeed I do. And I know it is not easy, to be a foreigner in the position of power—to have all these expectations placed upon you, but none of the trust. I've been there myself."

"In Amaranthine?"

Marcel nodded and smiled with the corner of his lips—it was not a pretty smile. After all these years, he still found it difficult to speak about Amaranthine, and it made him ill at ease.

The screams in his blood buzzed louder.

"The Fereldans, you know," he began, his accent suddenly heavier, "they have a specific manner of pronouncing the word 'Orlesian'. They spit it out as if it were filthy, as if keeping it on their tongue for a moment longer would somehow pollute their mouth. Labeling a man 'Orlesian' is an insult worse than calling him a lying, thieving, murderous son of a whore. So when I was appointed the Arl of Amaranthine, they weren't exactly _thrilled_. They had just lost their hero, a boy from one of their oldest, noble families. His face was everywhere—on statues, coins, Chantry window panes—to remind them of how he'd died to save them all. And as a replacement, whom did they get? An Orlesian who barely spoke the language and saw nothing wrong with color-coordinating his clothes."

Marcel huffed through his crooked smile.

"I had nothing to work to my advantage. _Rien._ I remember once, when I was sitting in judgment as the Arl of Amaranthine, there was a farmer who came to complain that darkspawn ate his sheep. He was angry and blamed the Wardens for failing to clean the lands. Fair enough. But when the man started talking, I did not understand a word—he spoke too fast, it sounded too _different_ than the Fereldan I was taught before they dispatched me there. So I just stared at him blinking, and then told my seneschal to take over the case. I thought I did well, as someone who understood both the farmer's words and his position would better handle the judgment. But you know what rumor spread afterwards? That the god-awful, _Orlesian_ Arl was so puffed up he deemed dealing with struggles of Fereldan farmers was beneath him."

The Inquisitor quietly laughed, then stopped realizing it was inappropriate. He blushed an even deeper shade of purple.

" _Alors, mon cher,_ if you care for my advice," Marcel placed his hand on the lad's elbow, as the shoulder was too high to reach. "If you're offered a role that can make them accept you: take it. Even if you don't believe in it. _Especially_ if you don't believe. It can make your life much easier."

"I think I understand what you mean." The Inquisitor slowly nodded and put aside his candles. "Only I'm not a foreigner like you. I was born and raised right here."

He pointed up at the glowing non-sky—strange, while it was practically impossible to define the exact location of the Fade, they all had this vague feeling of being somewhere underground.

"When, um, when my parents needed financial support, I took up a mercenary job," the lad said, his voice strangely soft. "I was with a human company at first. The captain, William Tully—Iron Ass, as everybody called him—was overjoyed to have a Qunari mage. He thought it would 'build his reputation' _._ So he dressed me up in some strange garbs which I think he believed Saarebas wore, paraded me around, and yelled at me to look dangerous. I did my best, but he wasn't happy. Then, not even a year later, he dismissed me. Said I was 'too meek'—he wanted a 'raging bull' but got a 'confused cow' instead."

Though cruel, Marcel had to admit that the comparison was quite fitting—with those huge eyes circled by thick, dark lashes, the lad indeed looked nothing like a raging bull.

"Then I thought it would be better to be among my own, and joined the Valo-Kas mercenaries," the Inquisitor continued. "I was their youngest member. They were nice, I can't complain. Shokrakar was very protective, motherly even, although she had this strange, literal way of speaking that I wasn't sure if it was supposed to pass for a sense of humor. Yet all of them were _real_ Qunari, y'know, Tal-Vashoth who'd actually deflected from the Qun. Many of them shared names, full on Qun-style, so we had to call them Ashaad One and Ashaad Two. I was different. I had a proper name—in Qunlat, Farid means 'unique', and I don't know what the hell mother was thinking when she named me that. So, um, they teased me—called me their 'special snowflake' and their 'little human'. They said they needed to _teach_ me how to be a proper Qunari, and despaired when I just didn't seem to get it."

The lad sighed and went back to his candles. He looked unexpectedly vulnerable for someone so large.

"I'm done with people wanting me to be something I'm not," he hissed, almost crushing a candle between his thick fingers. "I am _me._ Take it or leave it."

"Yes, yes, we get it," a voice said behind their backs. "You're you, and that's all nice and jolly."

Marcel must have been more worn-out than he thought, because he failed to notice the moment when the former Champion approached them. Who knew how long the man stood there.

"I really hate to interrupt your friendly chitchat, gentlemen," the former Champion spoke with a smirk, his arms crossed on his chest, "but I'm afraid we're losing our sense of urgency here. Allow me to remind you: we're in the Fade. _Physically_. We're very probably lost because we took a wrong turn, we're running out of time to stop an ancient darkspawn from becoming a god, and even in this very moment, we're being observed by this Nightmare fellow who's just waiting for the right opportunity to strike. And he _will_ strike, make no mistake there, he'll hit you where it hurts the most, and for that he'll dig much deeper than a few unpleasant memories or inner insecurities. It's going to get _ugly._ "

His grin was unbecomingly wide, as if the thought made him happy.

"While a lot of us did enjoy this short respite, me included, it's time to move on. Find Justinia, or whatever that is. Beat more of those spider thingies. Face our fears. Now be a good boy, Lord Inquisitor, and give me that candle."

Marcel thought that, after that passionate speech of his, the Inquisitor would smack the former Champion in the face—break his nose perhaps. Instead, the lad obediently handed over the candle.

 _Go figure._

The former Champion pushed him aside and approached the mirror. He studied the candles for a brief moment, murmured something to himself, frowned, and then with quick, apt movements, arranged them in a certain order—except for one, which he kept in his hand.

"This will do the trick, methinks," he sighed. "Here, Lord Inquisitor, take the last one and place it over there, so you can claim the prize. Maker forbid that scary woman bashes my brains in for preventing you from getting stronger."

That said, with a proficient, theatrical move, he turned on his heel to leave—but then stopped midway.

He stared at the mirror as if he'd noticed it for the first time.

All Marcel could see was the blurred reflection of the three of them in old, grease-stained glass. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Apparently, the former Champion was seeing something else.

"Hawke," the Inquisitor said, shifting his eyes between the former Champion and the mirror pane. "Is everything alright?"

The former Champion approached the mirror, unblinking, an odd expression on his face. Gone was the perfect picture of a professional hero: this man looked broken and a decade older, yet simultaneously, strangely boyish. There was a ghost of a smile in the corner of his lips, but it was not a smile of joy.

 _Longing—that's what this is,_ Marcel realized as he watched the man raise his hand and slowly touch the glass, as if he were caressing whatever he saw in it. Someone's skin, perhaps. He tilted his head and bit his lip, his breath hitched. For a moment, Marcel thought he might even shed a tear.

Suddenly, the former Champion curled his hand in a fist and slammed it against the pane with all his might.

The mirror cracked, glass shards falling to the ground and flying upward to the green non-sky.

"The hell did you do that for?" the Inquisitor exclaimed, his orange coat splattered with blood.

"None of your business, _your Grace_ ," the former Champion snarled and wiped his hand on his face, leaving a funny blood smear across his nose. "We're _done_ here. Now move along, or by Andraste's tits, I'll drag you by the horns myself."

The rest of their party noticed the ruckus—the Nevarran woman jumped to the Inquisitor's side, shooting an angry glance toward Marcel, while the dwarf came running to the former Champion, taking him by the injured hand. The man just waved him off, however, and continued down the hall in fast steps, without looking back. The others waited for an instant, and then rushed to catch up; the dwarf struggling to keep up the pace with his short legs, the Nevarran woman pushing the Inquisitor forward, and the off-key Warden dragging behind them, lost as only a person who had no idea what was happening could be.

Yet again, Marcel was left to take the rear.

Slowly, he approached the mirror shards that were lying scattered on the ground.

At first, all he saw there was the greenish reflection of the Fade sky, rippling like the surface of the sea, like the shallow waters on the beach where he'd spent his childhood. Then, bit by bit, the colors started to change, from green to yellow to orange, and it was no longer the sea waves he saw there.

It was flames.

Hissing. Flickering. Licking up the charred walls.

The voices inside his head began to wail, calling him to them.

With his heavy boot, Marcel stepped on the mirror shard. He took an unexpected pleasure from hearing it crack.

 _Maybe, just maybe,_ he thought, _that Nightmare thing is not so uncreative after all._

 **Chapter Three: Les neiges d'antan**

" _Did you love him?" he whispered. It was not a question to ask a lady, but fortunately for him, she was no lady._

" _No," she lied. "I hated him."_

" _Good." He flashed a flirtatious smile, and was happy to note she answered in kind. "Good. Then we have that in common."_

Marcel shuddered, as if kicked by a sleep twitch


End file.
